


Scenes from Purgatory

by wyluliwerewolf



Category: Trigun (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Afterlife, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Angry at God, Angst, Anime/Manga Fusion, Biblical Allusions (Abrahamic Religions), Biblical Imagery (Abrahamic Religions), Biblical Scripture References (Abrahamic Religions), Biblical Themes (Abrahamic Religions), Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Character Development, Character Study, Christianity, Christianity written by a non-Christian, Churches & Cathedrals, Existential Angst, Existential Crisis, Existential Questions, Gen, Headcanons Everywhere, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Jesus symbol, Might never be finished, Mythology References, Philosophy, Post-Canon, Religion, Religious Content, Religious Cults, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Surprise Ending, Swearing, Vash is such an obvious Jesus figure even the other characters see it, Wolfwood is a character in his own right for a change, Wolfwood is an actual priest, Wolfwood's religious beliefs, abuse of mythology, anime with manga backstory, author might have some things to unpack, gratuitous use of Egyptian mythology, headcanons, jesus figure, ranting at God, religion on Gunsmoke, surprise twist, yelling at god
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-15 12:34:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29189361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyluliwerewolf/pseuds/wyluliwerewolf
Summary: Nicholas D. Wolfwood thought he was dead and damned. Now he was dead and not-so-damned, and he wasn't sure what to do about it.There will be at least 3 chapters. The total number of chapters, and overall plot, are TBD. Chapter 1 takes place in the same universe as Costume.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 3





	1. The Death of Nicholas D. Wolfwood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Marley_Millions](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marley_Millions/gifts), [Neon_Lights_Vash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neon_Lights_Vash/gifts), [MrHyde786](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrHyde786/gifts).



> Warning: Chapter 1 may make anime Episode 23, and the song Rakuen, hurt even more than they already did.

Nicholas D. Wolfwood had spent the day expecting to die. Now he was bleeding out on the floor of an empty church, and he’d never been less happy to be right.

He’d tied up every loose end he possibly could. Afraid Millie might follow him into danger, he’d made her promise to wait for him. He’d told her he’d be back with a lump in his throat, knowing he probably wouldn’t. It was getting harder to lie, and he hated it.

He’d done everything he could to get Needle Noggin ready to fight Knives. Pushed Spikey to figure out what the hell he was going to do about his maniac brother. Forced him to admit that he was choosing to do nothing, running away, and every day he waited, more people were murdered. Found him wallowing in guilt, told him where to find Knives, and gave him a damn good pep talk about what it meant to be mortal, while ironically, painfully aware of his own impending mortality. Spikey had been somewhere else, wallowing in guilt, barely aware of Nick’s presence or able to understand his words. Didn’t even seem to realize Nick was injured. Probably didn’t realize. Nick was a good actor, to the end.

He hated religion and everything the Eye of Michael had done to it, to the point where he rarely set foot in a church, and had never made a confession. But Nick was surprised to find he wanted to confess, and the building with its stained glass was comforting. It felt like the right place to spend his last moments.

Nick rarely let himself think about what it would be like to die, although he had little fear of it. It was different than he had expected. The physical pain was excruciating, but not bad enough to prevent him from walking and talking normally just moments before. He had felt worse. What was unbearable was the certainty that this was the end. There would be no second chances. What was it he’d just said to Vash, something like, “don’t feel bad about it, just do better next time?” For Nick, there would be no next time. He’d spent his life running from guilt this way by always looking ahead to the next time, and now, every sin he’d ever committed was catching up with him. It was like he’d been running from a crowd of children, then suddenly stopped short, and now they were all slamming into him.

He saw the faces of every man, woman, and child he’d ever killed. His guardian, though he still felt more grim satisfaction than guilt for killing him. Any number of gunslinging murderers, slavers, drug lords, and other scum of the earth – he’d told himself they deserved to die. A few bounties he’d taken to feed the orphans – for them, he’d do anything, no questions asked. He’d been proud of his skill. And, more often than he’d like to admit, he had enjoyed killing.

Nick had never believed in Fate (that was an excuse for people who didn’t want to take responsibility for their choices). Yet, it was cruel that he’d come to re-evaluate the principles by which he lived his life, to see how many of his “right choices” were really sins, knowing he’d never get the chance to improve himself. 

He wanted to start over. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with his friends; to make up with Vash, to get to know Millie and make her smile. He wished they were here now. He’d always expected to die alone, but it was so much worse than he could have imagined.


	2. The Weight of a Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Come, mortal. The time has come to weigh your soul.*
> 
> This wasn't how the Afterlife had been described in the Bible, or in the Eye of Michael's worthless teachings. There was only Heaven and Hell. Nick supposed there needed to be some sort of sorting mechanism, but he'd expected it to be a thought in God's ineffable mind, not a literal scale.

The last thing Nick saw was so blurred as to be unrecognizable. However, he knew he was looking at his cross, the floor, his dropped cigarette, his hand lying limply, and a spreading pool of blood staining it all.

The next thing Nick saw was blackness surrounding him, and something gold beneath his feet. He seemed to be at the top of some sort of T-shaped structure made of golden poles. The beam on which he stood extended to the horizon on both sides.

A voice on his left called out to him. It seemed to be coming from everywhere, or maybe inside him, or perhaps in his imagination, or even all of them at once. _Come, mortal. The time has come to weigh your soul._

This wasn't how the Afterlife had been described in the Bible, or in the Eye of Michael's worthless teachings. There was supposed to be only Heaven and Hell. Of course, there needed to be some sort of sorting mechanism, but Nick had expected it to be a thought in God's ineffable mind, not a literal scale. He knelt down and tapped at the beam on which he stood. It was solid metal. “What happens if I fall?”

 _You'll reappear where you stand now. After all, you're already dead._ Good thing Nick's balance had been enhanced; he had a long way to go to reach either end of the beam.

"Who are you?"

_That is not important. Walk in my direction._

Nick crouched low and crept carefully along the beam. At least it was firm, not slippery. With attention, it was easy enough going.

"What is this place?"

_You are on the Scale of Judgment itself. When you reach the end, your soul will be weighed against a feather. If it be lighter, you'll go to Heaven. If it be heavier, you're bound for Hell._

"What if my soul weighs the same amount?"

 _Then you'll join most of humanity in Purgatory,_ the voice said, _but we're not supposed to talk about Purgatory straight off. Oh dear, I've said too much._

Nick would have chuckled, if his soul weren't in the balance.

"Well, let's get this over with." He knew he was going to Hell; all of this was just a formality.

Eventually, Nick reached the end of the beam. Below was a vertical pole holding up a vast expanse that must have been the tray where objects were placed for weighing. Although he didn't relish it, he wrapped his body around the pole and slid down for what felt like miles. At last, his feet landed softly on a firm surface. His bones didn't jar on impact the way he would've expected after such a long fall. There was creaking, then a long silence. Nick tapped his foot, then paced, wishing they'd hurry up and send him to Hell already, and that he had a cigarette. Maybe this was the beginning of his torture. He hoped Hell wasn't endless waiting with no cigarettes. He wasn't sure he could stand it forever.

_Purgatory it is._

Nick's mouth opened in surprise. Before he could close it again, everything went black.

Nick awoke standing with Angelina in front of a motel that looked like the average of every cheap, run-down one where he'd ever stayed. Around him were bustling streets, but this wasn't a city Nick knew. Purgatory was more crowded, and more like Gunsmoke, than he would've expected.

 _Might as well check into this motel for now,_ he thought. _Since I'm never leaving here, I'll need a place to stay._

He carried his travel bag over one shoulder, but his Punisher was nowhere to be seen. _What the Hell?_ Fortunately, he still had a handgun in his inner jacket pocket. He could defend himself, if necessary. (Could he even die in Purgatory? He wasn't sure. The Bible had been most uninformative on that point).

Before too long, Nick had obtained keys from a bored, gum-chewing receptionist and made his way to a small room with no immediately visible insects. This would do, for now. He unpacked, but did not remove his jacket or shoes. His next step would be to take a walk and learn his way around the place. Fortunately, there were cigarettes in his jacket pocket, his trusty companions on the journey.

Nick pondered his death and journey to the afterlife, his thoughts looping confusedly across each other. He had been proud of his choice not to kill, then despaired, as a lifetime of snap decisions to pull the trigger struck him. There would be no "next time" to make a different choice. All his life, he'd thought he was doing, if not the right thing, then at least the least wrong out of an array of evil possibilities. Had Nick lived his entire life wrong? Had he achieved his dream of saving his orphans from having to kill, or did he teach them to shoot men dead? Either way, It was too damn late to do a thing about it. 

Why had Nick ended up here? Had his rationalizations been worth something after all--his acting to protect children, or in self defense? His targeting of slavers and murderers, figuring that one death could prevent dozens more? He'd been willing to give the last crumb of food on him to hungry children, and to jump to the rescue without even checking whether he carried a weapon. Did that balance out his murders, lies, and many vices? Did Nick's choice to accept near-certain death by betraying the Gung Ho Guns cancel out his having been one of them in the first place?

Nick had thought he was dead and damned. Now he was dead and not-so-damned, and he wasn't sure what to do about it.

He was standing in a thriving city. Maybe Nick had gotten his wish: an opportunity to live a better life. Had his wish to spend eternity with his friends also come true? He hoped not. Certainly, Vash and Millie would go to Heaven; maybe even Meryl. Still, Nick had been wrong about where he'd spend his own afterlife, so perhaps he had equally misjudged his friends. He'd be furious with God and the order of the universe if he found them here, or Miss Melanie and Livio (who held his orphanage together). Yet Nick kept his eyes open for a sign of any of them.

As he wandered the streets, his eyes fell on a sign. What he read stopped him in his tracks.

“Best in July or your money back.”

July had never been resettled since the disaster. Occasionally, a few enterprising people would settle at the outskirts of the ruins. However, the whole area was full of radiation, and sensible people stayed away. There could be only one explanation.

Nick was walking the streets of Lost July.


	3. Church

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the second time in his adult life, Nick dragged himself into a church. Why did he feel the need to come here? It had to be simply a desire to return to where he'd died, and pick up where he'd left off.

For the second time in his adult life, Nick dragged himself into a church. It had a sloping roof with a high ceiling. Stained glass windows lined the walls, probably depicting Biblical scenes, indecipherable from the front door. The whole room was shaped like a cross. There was a raised pulpit at the front of the room, opposite the door, which dominated the room. On the wall behind the pulpit hung an immense wooden cross, with a Jesus figure hanging from it. 

There were no benches to sit on. There were only stools to kneel.

It was exactly what Church meant to him.

Nick walked down the aisle. He felt a weight on his shoulders that grew ever stronger as he neared the pulpit and the cross behind it. He felt dragged down by the disapproving judgment of generations. He felt it pushing him towards the floor. He refused to kneel. The stuffy, silent air felt oppressive. It was a visceral reminder of the Eye of Michael, and he fought the urges to run away or smash the windows in.

Why did Nick feel the need to come here? Church, to him, was a way to herd people into one place, to tell them lies about eternal damnation that kept them obedient, and lies about Grace that kept them coming back, hopeful and loyal. There was no grace or forgiveness, of course. We were all worthless, disgusting sinners, and the evidence was visible as soon as we walked out the door. The Church was a tool of the Plant cults, where a ritual transaction took place. The Church let you shed guilt, and mark births, deaths, and every Sunday in between. In return, you gave them your will, mind, heart, and wallet. Religion, to Nick, was the brainwashing of the Eye of Michael, and church was where lost lambs were herded to be slaughtered.

Yet, here he was for some reason. It had to be simply a desire to return to where he'd died, and pick up where he'd left off. 

Nick approached the cross. It was made of wood instead of Gunsmoke's usual metal, so the carved figure of Jesus was much more detailed. His arms and legs hung limply, and his head was bent downward, as if he were resigned. As if he'd been hanging, naked and bleeding, unable to move without tearing his flesh, for hours now. As if, through the hunger and thirst and pain, he'd come to that peaceful, almost contented point that sometimes comes in the eye of the storm of a long migraine-- or perhaps any endless, inescapable, overwhelming pain. Yet Jesus' eyes were open, and looked anything but dull and glassy. They stared down on Nick almost defiantly. Yet, he saw no hatred in Jesus's eyes, or even anger. Only a stubborn hanging on to who he was and what he'd come for.

Whoever made this cross had taken pains to make Jesus look real, and even beautiful. He was all lean muscle, with long arms and legs. His face looked young, and somehow delicate despite its strong chin. His long hair hung around broad shoulders. 

This Jesus looked human, hanging helplessly in dire pain, waiting for death. But he was also God, the Bible said, and brought a message beyond mortal comprehension. A message he willingly died to deliver.

_Love your enemies._  
If a man steals your coat, give to him your cloak also.  
If a man slaps you in the face, turn to him the other cheek, too. 

_Love and peace._

A message that on Gunsmoke, got you ridiculed at best and murdered at worst. A message that made you a target even more surely than a bright red coat.

Was it worth all that? Why continue to go through that pain, knowing no one would hear and understand?

Nick sat cross legged on the floor before the statue of Jesus, looking up into his face, as if he were merely talking to an old friend. At last he could do what he came here to do.

"Well, I'm dead, and I'm not burning in Hell for some reason. Now what?"

"My life was a failure. I killed from the beginning and I was proud of it. There was always an excuse, always no alternative. Part of me never believed my excuses, I guess, so I punished myself with cigarettes and shitty alcohol. Probably set a terrible example for the kids, even though I tried to hide it from 'em. I thought my purpose was to take care of orphans 'n make sure they never went through what I did, but I couldn't even manage that. I couldn't keep 'em from becoming pawns in Knives' and Legato's sick game. I couldn't even stay with them. I died and left 'em unprotected. God, I hope Legato didn't...come after them when he no longer needed to use 'em against me. I thought I got that whole not-killing thing down when I let Chapel go, but instead I died. My life was shit, I was shit, and for what?"

There was no answer, of course, but there was relief in ranting to this image of Jesus--the one thing that made him feel comfortable in this godawful place.

"Why the hell am I talking to God, though?" Nick demanded. "He doesn't give a shit. He abandoned me, He abandoned Gunsmoke. I know praying isn't just askin' Daddy for a favor 'n getting it, an' it's fine He never answered my prayers that way...I kinda expected that. But He never answered my prayers in any way, even though I was always listenin'. He stopped doin' miracles, like parting seas an' burnin' bushes 'n all that, long ago, if He ever did. But then He fucks off and does nuthin' for centuries. Then he says, 'here, have a messenger tellin' you how to live to bring peace to the world, but who can't actually fix it. I'll just give 'im a few party tricks like walkin' on water, turnin' it into wine, an' bringing a random guy back from the dead.' An' you make him just as much able to suffer an' die as any other human,” Nick continued, not even noticing he’d changed tense, “and you let him die the worst way possible, thinkin', 'no big deal, I'll just bring 'im back from the dead' --incidentally, couldn't you have done that for everyone all along? So ya bring back Jesus, that'll make 'em understand and stop destroyin' each other an' everything else, right? Hmph, we know how that went. And then, after failin' somehow despite bein' perfect an' all knowing, you fuck off again for a couple thousand years or so. 

"So ya kick back 'n let us destroy our planet. Then, because you clearly learned nuthin' from the last time, you send another messenger to torture an' ignore, except this time, ya make him basically immortal so we c'n do it forever.'"

Nick paused for breath. Wow, that got way off track, he thought. He was trying to have an existential crisis, not vent hatred against God. 

What was the point of ranting like this? God didn't give a shit what Nick thought of Him anyway. And the God he was yelling at, he hadn't believed in since he was an Eye of Michael trainee, just a kid. 

Since then, Nick had learned there was no God worthy of the name, and Knives was no substitute. The only thing Nick believed in was the flickering spark of goodness in people--the human soul. He'd been pretty much an atheist priest, ironically. Needle Noggin was right, Nick was a terrible priest. And he had been almost proud of it.

And Needle Noggin...well, he certainly wasn't the all perfect, all knowing, cruel god Nick had just lambasted. But that broomhead was the closest thing to Jesus Nick could imagine. The Vash he knew, though, wasn't here in Limbo. He was probably immortal, after all. 

_Why am I thinkin' about Spikey right now? I still have the whole rest of my afterlife to figure out!_

Nick was used to living in a hellhole. He constantly strove to survive, or help others live. Without that most fundamental drive in his life, he had no idea what to do with himself. 

There were children here. Was there anything to protect them from? Nothing could kill them, but they could still be wounded, physically and emotionally. What did they need? What if the threats they faced were mainly emotional? Did Nick even have any idea how to help with that? Growing up here instead of Gunsmoke, they were already less scarred than he'd ever been. In a way, they were ahead of him. 

Could he become someone capable of helping them? How?

Nick thought about Needle Noggin again, eyes still fixed blankly on the cross. Vash had his defenses, sure. But even with those, he'd filed the rough edges off, choosing to look like a harmless idiot. He didn't look tough or intimidating, put on a gruff voice, or effect a "badass" look the way Nick did. Vash may have been steely stubborn underneath, but he went into the world gentle, soft, and kind.

Because Vash wore his heart on his sleeve and openly cared for people, he was constantly hurt. Little bruises to the heart, constantly, every day. He was at least as scarred inside as he was outside. 

But he didn't run from this avoidable pain. He _chose_ it. He kept going into the world like that, knowing he'd be hurt. To everyone, even Nick at first, it looked weak, but now he knew it was brave.

Now if only that bravery had extended to dealing with his damn brother...

Nick didn’t have the courage to live like Vash; even the thought terrified him. But what if that was something Nick was supposed to learn? 

Love and peace was more than just refraining from murdering people, although even that most basic lesson seemed beyond most people on Gunsmoke. Hell, even Nick had failed at the whole survive-to-do-it-again part. Maybe he had only just begun learning from Vash. Well now, he had endless time for it.

There was no way Nick could erase the murders he'd committed or the person he'd been. All he could do was choose better in the future; he already knew that. The question he'd brought to Church, really, was how.

Now, the first steps of the path were becoming clearer to him.

He'd fought his whole life to be himself, Nicholas D. Wolfwood. He'd been forced to be Chapel, then Judas. Maybe he'd try being St. Peter for a while. See how it went. He could always step back into Nicholas D. Wolfwood, taking what he'd learned.

Nick stood up, wiping nonexistent dust from his suit, and looked up into Jesus' face.

"Well, I'm off," he said, waving. "Thanks for the good talk. I'll be back." He turned and walked out of the Church, head held high, ready to begin a new (after)life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Believe it or not, this chapter had nothing to do with Hozier's song Take Me To Church.
> 
> I hope the symbolism in this chapter isn't hit-you-over-the-head annoyingly obvious. It's hard for me to judge, because I personally hate most symbolism, especially Jesus figures. (Vash is one of the few exceptions). I think even in-universe, Vash is clearly a Jesus figure, and Wolfwood would notice. 
> 
> I also hope Wolfwood's decision to follow Vash's example, and having Vash appear so often in his private thoughts, won't turn him into a Supporting Character With No Personality and Life Outside of Vash. Even the manga falls into that pattern a bit, with Wolfwood's face often cut off by Vash or blocked by his speech balloons. I think it's one of the biggest challenges in writing Vash/Wolfwood. Constructive criticism welcome from here on out!
> 
> Thank you to my dearest friend Grigori who inspired me to write this, and my partner who loves Wolfwood and is one of the rare people with whom I can talk about religion.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is dedicated to Grigorii and Neon because, without them, it wouldn't exist. It's also dedicated to Mr. Hyde, a good friend and Wolfwood fan who is *way* more reliable about rp'ing than I am.


End file.
